


Becky

by olehistorian



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Drama, F/M, Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:04:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olehistorian/pseuds/olehistorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story has Season 5 spoilers. It covers a snippet of Mrs. Hughes backstory relating to her sister, Becky, who resides in Lytham St. Anne's. She and Mr. Carson are traveling for a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On The Train

Her hands clasp tightly together, rest solidly in her lap. Her lips pressed into a thin, harsh line, move ever so slightly as she chews on the lower one nervously. She absently stares out of the carriage's window and watches the countryside pass – an indistinct series of blues, greens, browns, and grays. She really does not notice the particulars. The lovely stone farmhouses, the children playing in the yards, women hanging the wash. To her they are but blurs on the countryside. Not one to brood, life is what it is, a series of circumstances, her mind drifts to the past, to the sister that she is traveling to see.

It has been three years since she has seen Becky, the sister four years younger than herself. The sister that she wished for, had been so excited to learn was finally coming. Her mother's pregnancy had been a happy one and Elsie marveled at the idea that a baby was growing inside her mother's belly. She had been a farm girl, watching births all her life, but this would be different. A brother or a sister (she secretly hoped) to confide in, to be friends with, to roam the rolling hills with. But she still shivers, a cold tingle running down her spine, when she remembers the night of her sister's birth.

The hours of waiting, the strangled cries coming from the bedroom, her father's anguished face, the midwife struggling and her aunt bursting through into the bedroom with warm blankets and pans of warm water. She remembers that no one bothered to tell her what was happening, but she understands now, forgave them long ago. She remembers scraps of conversation "a little girl," "wrapped around her neck," "infirm."

She remembers the first time she saw her sister, a beautiful little thing.

All soft, big eyes and downy hair. Her mother beckons her sit next to them, to introduce herself to this sister that she has so wanted. Her mother explains that the little bundle's name is Rebecca, that it means both captivating and tied up; her mother explains that it also means secure. That they must always make sure Becky is secure. Elsie understands the captivating part right away for her sister captivates her. She loves her instantly, from the moment she extends her finger and the little bairn grasps it tightly. It will be fair few years before she understands the second meaning of the name, before she understands the life her sister is destined to lead. The tie that they will share.

"We will be there soon," his voice interrupts her thoughts. She glances away from the window and looks to him, smiles, places her hand on his arm and squeezes.

"Yes, not long now," she replies.


	2. Quiet Strength

"Yes, not long now," she replies, her hand resting on his arm. He smiles, covers her small hand with his large one, caresses her wrist with his thumb. She slips her hand from his and finds her handbag, begins to search for something, a little black notebook and a pen. She flips open the cover begins to make a few notes and a list of items to purchase that Becky may like: pens, paper, colours.

He watches her as she writes, meticulous in her process, perfect script. He marvels at this woman, his wife, the fierce concentration playing across her face as she plans for her sister, for their stay at the little hotel nearby. Every item noted and checked. He watches as she absentmindedly chews on the end of her pen, thinking, and then writes a sentence and a question she wishes to ask the doctor.

He reaches for the pocket of his waistcoat and frees his watch, clicks it open, and notices the time. He rubs the chain between fingers, feeling the delicate metal, counting the links. His mind is taken back to their wedding night when she presented it to him. A new chain for your watch, Charles. His initial impulse had been to refuse it for he knew that she could ill afford such extravagances. Instead, tears flooded his eyes at her thoughtfulness, her sacrifice. He had tried to attach the chain himself, but in the end his shaking hands failed him and she affixed it for him. He places the watch back into the pocket of his waistcoat and pauses his finger a moment on the chain. He thinks that it is like her shinning and bright, delicate, yet strong. Steady. Always steady. This woman, his wife.

Now I've embarrassed you. The words haunt him still. Even then, when he unknowingly forced the secret out of her, she was concerned about him rather than herself. Concerned that she had mortified him with her story of poverty, of revealing something so very personal about herself to him, of somehow being less in his eyes. He looks over to her now, as she writes in her little book, and thinks how wrong she was to have thought such a thing. He saw her then, he sees her now, as not less, but more than most he knows. Richer than the family they serve, kinder beyond measure, and more than he deserves.

She flips the notebook's cover closed and places it and the pen back into her handbag. He reaches out, mostly something that she does first but he is getting better at, and takes her hand. He intertwines their fingers together and rests their hands on his knee.


	3. Arrival

The last time she has visited St. Anne's she was alone. It was during the season when everyone was away and she took a week to herself, telling the few staff that remained back at Downton that she was visiting a distant cousin. She had lodged at a bed and breakfast, not unlike the one that she and her husband now own, visited her sister taken meals with her, walked the gardens around the hospital with her. She had walked the beaches, toes and ankles relishing the freedom from the thick stockings that confined them every day. Bare feet on warm sand, toes sinking into it, leaving prints behind, that the tide soon washed over. Her mark being washed out to sea with the footprints of all the others who had walked before her somehow comforted her. Being part of a larger whole, all bound by the Creator and nature that operates according to schedule. Yet, now she thinks of what and who she will leave behind when her time comes. She has never dwelt on these things much before. Tries to shake them from her mind. Wonders what on earth has gotten into her. But the thoughts are there. There are no children who have her eyes or hair. Her laugh or sense of compassion. Like the footprints washed out with the tide, what will be left behind? What will happen to Becky if she dies first? There is the money from the sale of the farm; her mother left her the place for the both of them. Elsie knew what her mother wanted, what she intended but did not spell out. That Elsie can take care of herself and that she must take care of Becky as well. They are sisters bound by name and blood and circumstance. She has never seen the money as hers; she is not bitter nor jealous, it is the way things must be. Long ago, Mr. Murray placed the money in a trust for the care of Miss Rebecca Hughes.

She steps off the train and takes in her surroundings, noticing that everything looks the same. The little red brick train station, the two wooden green benches on each side of the station entrance, the train schedule behind the glass. Even the stationmaster is the same man as the last time she visited. She knows that the only difference is with her; the gold band that the sits snugly on the third finger of her left hand and the big bear of a man who placed it there, standing to her right. He grabs their bags and guides her with a nod of his head toward the taxi stand. The last time she arrived, she walked to the place that she stayed and she is content to do it this time but a light rain has begun to fall and so they pile into a car and find their way to their hotel.

After supper, they bathe, change into their night things, take a cup of tea, and settle into bed. She has her notebook open, her reading glasses on (her vanity shows, she only wears them with him, never in public), she taps the end of the pen against the page as she thinks. Charles is reading the sport page of the local paper and making comments on how the local cricket club is faring. He has a keen interest in all things sport, not just cricket. This is but only one thing she has learned since they married; she feigns interest but listens dutifully. He prattles on about one thing or another but then notices that she has stopped responding. Folding the paper, he sets it aside and looks over to her. Finds her staring into her lap, at the book, at the black words scratched into the stark white paper. He reaches, takes the pen and book from her, and sets them aside with his paper.

"Elsie, what's wrong?" he asks softly. She has been pleasant enough today but distant. He decided to let her work through it, but can stand it no longer. "Have I done something?"

She jerks her head up in his direction; tears filling her eyes threaten to spill over. "You've done everything," she cries.


	4. A Story To Tell

"You've done everything," she cries. For a moment, she sees a wave of confusion pass over him, his eyebrows twisting downward just so. Poor man, she realizes, he misunderstands. Her tears are those of joy, hope, release. The burdens that she has held so long, the things that she doesn't lie about but doesn't say, she can share, and he has been so understanding so patient with her. He has not pressed her to reveal anything more about Becky than she is ready to. She has told him little bits here and there, when she has felt she must. It's old habit really, keeping it all to herself. But now this man, her man, lays beside her, warm and comforting, and she does not have to keep it to herself any longer.

She shakes her head slightly and wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "You must think me foolish," she says through a watery smile.

"No, never."

She looks down at her hands, as she fidgets with the blanket, and thinks for a moment. "Charles, I was always taught, that we took care of our own and that people had enough of their own burdens….."

"….and that is why you didn't tell me about Becky?" he asks.

"I don't know. Maybe." She looks up when she feels him unclasp her hands and taking one into his, cradling it between his two big paws. "It is the job of the housekeeper to give counsel not to seek it," she says with a sad smile.

"But you aren't just the housekeeper anymore, Elsie," Charles says fingering the ring that he had placed there just a few months earlier.

She slides down, pulling him with her, his face over hers. Running fingers through his graying hair, she gently encourages him forward and then claims his lips, pouring every feeling she has for him into a burning kiss. Every old burden that she could not or would not share, every fear, every unspoken desire, every 'Thank You' for listening, is here between them in this moment.

Charles reaches over her, turns off the lamp on the stand, and settles down pulling her close to him. Planting a kiss into her hair, he makes a request. "Tell me about you. About these Hughes sisters." He feels her relax into him and sees a smile, illuminated by the moonlight creeping in behind the drapes.

She tells Charles stories of a beautiful little lass with deep blue eyes, a shock of dark hair. Delicate features. Stories of two little girls, one thundering ahead of the other, but who by necessity and devotion learned patience and to slow to the other's pace. Of singing lullabies to her sister and making houses of fresh sweet straw and cakes and tarts out of mud. Of ambling after butterflies. Oh, she looks up to Charles with pride in her voice, Becky can identify and draw every butterfly in Scotland and England. He smiles, brushes her hair behind her ear. These are good memories, he is thankful that he can share them with her. She rests her head back in the crook of his shoulder. Tells him more of their childhood. Of singing on the front porch, braiding Becky's hair, sitting with their feet in the cool waters of Argyll's lochs.

Then Charles notices that her mood grows a bit pensive, but not maudlin. Sadness is a sometimes-traveling companion of happiness, she tells him as she picks at his pajama shirt. Circling a button with the tip of her finger. Elsie begins to tell Charles of a bright girl locked away in an unwilling body.

She tells him of how she read her lessons to Becky, who at two had no idea what Elsie was doing, but sat and listened nonetheless. Who, several, years later stayed at home with her mother while Elsie walked with her mates to the village school. How her sister was slow to speak and cried in frustration when she wanted to read or write the same way as the other children. Elsie remembers rubbing soothing circles on Becky's back until she quieted. How she sat, still sits, with a notebook and pencil and draws; it calms her. "She's really very talented." He hears the pride in her voice again before it turns to sadness as she tells him of how her parents struggled to buy a pair of desperately needed eyeglasses. Of how their mother cried at night when she thought they were sleeping but how she had heard. Heard the deep sobbing that occurred only under the cover of darkness where no one other than God could stand witness. But by day, Margaret Hughes stood tall, proud, worked hard and had a smile and bit of sass in her voice. "A right nippy sweetie," she laughs against Charles's chest.

Charles hugs his wife closer and mentions that he is beginning to understand that she is a little like her mother, perhaps. Elsie sighs. Perhaps she is. Lord knows she has cried over Anna and Mr. Bates. Alone in her room at night, cries muffled into a handkerchief or pillow so that no one would hear. And Lord knows she has a nip to her words. She thinks. If she is at all like her mother, then he has paid her an almighty compliment.

Charles listens as Elsie talks well into the early hours of the morning. She talks until her voice gives way to sleep, the words trailing off until he notices her breathing slows and her motions still. He smooths his hand over her shoulder and pulls the blanket over them. This night he realizes that butlers are not the only ones who need their hearts stitched up. Housekeepers do too.


	5. These Hughes Sisters

Elsie's handbag is looped over her elbow and she carries two small parcels wrapped in brown paper tied with blue ribbon. Charles coat pocket swells with a small package that the shopgirl wrapped for him. He reaches down, pats the outside of his coat, and makes sure that the parcel is safe. He smiles and hopes that she likes it when he gives it to her. Oddly, he is nervous. Her opinion means a great deal to him.

As they round the corner, the hospital comes into view. A large sprawling Victorian, surrounded by lush gardens and iron gate, Charles isn't sure what he had expected but somehow this home seems much less clinical than what he had imagined. He hadn't imagined the workhouse of course, but perhaps more of a cold, stone edifice, imposing, daunting, possibly filled with wards, and teeming with patients. But of course, she would never leave her sister in a place such as that. And then it makes sense as to why she went to see Grigg. Enlisted Mrs. Crawley's help. And oh, god, he cannot bear think it. What she must have gone through when she thought she was ill. He feels his heart begin to race. Both she and Becky could have ended up in one of those horrible places. Becky in an asylum and Elsie worried that she would end up in the workhouse or worse. Sometimes he can be a right fool, he thinks.

They approach the door and Elsie turns to him and smiles. He imagines that she is somehow seeking his approval; that she has done well by her sister when she made the decision to leave her here, at this place. "It's very nice," he offers sincerely.

"She seems to like it here. She's done well. They are very good to her," she answers back happily. He approves, she thinks, and his approval means more to her than she thought it would.

They ring the bell and a well-dressed man greets them at the door, asks them who they are and if they have an appointment. He checks his register and finds their names there. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Carson. Another change from the last time she visited, she thinks. Pride swells in her breast. Mrs. Carson. She signs the register with her new name; notices out of the corner of her eye how the corner of her husband's mouth twitches just upward as he watches her.

"Why don't I sit here while you visit? When you're ready, come and get me," he offers with a gentle smile. Truth told she is grateful. She hasn't seen her sister in three years and covets some time alone, wants to introduce the idea of her marriage to Becky privately. She clasps Charles' hand and squeezes, leaves him with a dazzling smile. He watches as she walks away from him toward the figure in the distance. Her stride familiar, strong, purposeful. He has watched her walk the halls of Downton for more years that he can remember, but nothing matches the sight before him now. She is walking toward the sister, whom she hasn't seen in a handful of years, the sister she loves, has devoted her life and livelihood to. He watches as she reaches Becky, she turns, and he sees Elsie's hands lovingly hold both sides of her sister's face and then brush over her hair. Charles's heart stirs as he realizes that this is family and that this is his family. These Hughes sisters.

"Essie," Becky cries in delight at the touch of her older sister. The childhood nickname still warms Elsie's heart all these years later.

"Becky, lass, I've missed you," Elsie replies with a quiver in her voice.

Becky clings to her sister with a child-like innocence. In service, touch is something that servants crave, something Elsie starved for until Charles. She is overwhelmed by this overt showing of love. For most of her life, she has lived in such a constrained, proper, world where human touch is almost forbidden, unseemly. She draws her lip between her teeth, a habit not lost on her sister. "Just like Mam," she laughs. Elsie feels free to laugh as well. Becky's laughter. It's one of the things that she misses hearing every day. So pure and unaffected.

"I've brought you some things," Elsie tells her as she caresses Becky's hand and she guides them to a sit at the table that is nearby. When she places the two parcels on the table, she notices as Becky's eyes light up. She remembers it is the same look that Miss Sybbie had upon seeing the array of gifts under the tree her first Christmas morning. The happiness in Becky's eyes is always the same, never faltering, she is always amazed (and grateful) for whatever Elsie sends her by way of the post or brings to her when she visits. Elsie wonders how much better everyone would be if they approached life with the simplicity that Becky does. She is thankful that Becky is untouched from the harsh realities of life, unlike those back at home.

With enthusiasm and exaggerated motion, Becky unties the ribbon and quickly rids the parcels of their paper wrappings. Smiling broadly, she finds a supply of new pencils, coloured and regular and a new notebook for drawing. She immediately opens the notebook, turns to a fresh page and begins to doodle. Elsie and Becky fall into the familiar routine that they have had for years. They remember stories from their childhood. Reminisce about the chocolate cakes that their grandmother baked and the time that Elsie burned the shortbread black. Becky mentions about the time that Elsie blacked the eye of Donal Frazier when he tried to sneak a kiss at the village dance when she was thirteen. They speak of butterflies; of the small book on Scotland's butterfly species that Elsie sent last spring, (it is a cast off from Lord Gratham's library). Becky tells of some of the people at the clinic. A woman called Mary who talks to her baby doll. Another woman called Caroline with whom she plays snakes and ladders.

"Becky," Elsie begins tentatively "you remember my friend, Mr. Carson? I've told you about him. Well, he came with me today. He would like to meet you." More things she doesn't lie about but doesn't say. Why not just come out and say it, Elsie? I've married Mr. Carson.

Becky continues to draw, a beautiful butterfly beginning to take shape. "Why does he want to meet me?" she asks innocently.

"Well, you see, he's my husband," Elsie replies, carefully gauging her sister's reaction. Becky continues to draw, never looking up. "We married a few months ago."

"So you aren't Essie Hughes anymore?"

"My last name is Carson now, but that is all that has changed," Elsie reassures her. "Nothing else has changed. He is a very kind man. Shall we meet him?" Elsie extends her hand to Becky's back, rubbing it as she did when they were girls. She is worried about how Becky might react to this change. Becky doesn't like change, but the doctor has assured her that Becky has progressed nicely over the years. Makes friends, engages in activities more often than she used to. Deals with change some better. Best get on with it, Elsie thinks.

Elsie stands, puts some gentle pressure on Becky's arm, prompting her, "Come on, he's waiting," she urges. Becky acquiesces. Stands, tears the page from the notebook that she's been working on, and arm in arm she and Elsie make their way to Charles.

"Mr. Carson, I have someone I would like you to meet."


	6. Cheerful Charlie and the Scottish Butterfly

"Mr. Carson, I have someone I would like you to meet," Elsie said with a hesitant smile. She'll never dare to admit it, but she's anxious. Anxious that Becky will not retreat into her shell in the presence of a stranger. And if she is to dwell on it, she hopes that Charles doesn't retreat into the Butler in the face of the unfamiliar.

Charles looks up from the article he is reading to find the two Hughes sisters, standing arm in arm before him. As he stands to greet them, doffing his hat, he is struck by them. He expects a family resemblance, of course, and is not disappointed. Elsie has shown him a few pictures, but none too recent and it is quite different to meet the woman in person. Oh, she is an inch or two shorter than Elsie, a stone slimmer, hair darker, but the similarities are remarkable. The same sapphire eyes dancing with an underlying hint of mischievous wonder, Becky's covered behind wire-rimmed glasses, but bright and shining nonetheless. Her face unlined by the worries of life, she shares the same high cheekbones, and importantly, in Charles estimation, the brilliant smile that he has come to love.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Charles offers a little stiffly. He notices a note of concern pass briefly over his wife's face. Hopes he hasn't disappointed her; given her cause to worry that he will muck things up. "I've brought you a little something," he says as he nervously fishes the small package out of his suit pocket. "I hope that you like it, Becky."

Charles holds the parcel out for Becky to take and she hesitates for a moment. She looks to her sister, a question in her eyes. Elsie smiles, nods. Gives her a reassuring pat on the arm. "I have something for you too, Charlie," she says offering him the piece of paper that she's torn from her notebook. Charles mouth hangs open for just a moment and the intake of breath is almost audible.

"Well, Charles, you should count yourself special," Elsie chirps. "Becky doesn't just offer her drawings to anyone." She notices Charles' lip quiver as he takes the paper, turns it over and sees the most beautiful rendering of a delicate butterfly. His finger hovering just above the paper, he traces over the black lines, checkerboards of orange, cream, and brown shadings.

"It's perfect," he says, his tongue subconsciously slipping between his lips to wet them.

"It's a…." Becky begins

"…Marsh Fritillary," her brother-in-law finishes for her, both of them looking at one another, proudly. Elsie breathes a sigh of relief; the butler stayed in his box. She urges Becky to unwrap her gift from Charles, knowing that he has waited nervously to give it to her.

Becky tears the ribbon and paper from the parcel passing them to her sister. Much like Charles, she is astounded at the sight before her, silent for a moment, before rewarding Charles with a sparkling smile. "Essie look," she says excitedly showing Elsie her prize.

"Well, my, my Becky, you've quite an admirer in Mr. Carson," she replies with pride looking from her sister to her husband.

"Pin it to my dress, Essie, please," Becky asks. Elsie takes the silver stickpin with the lovely and delicate silver butterfly on the end, a small blue stone in its center, and pins it securely to the lapel of Becky's dress.

"Thank you Charlie," she says with such a sincerity that Charles' heart leaps just a little. He thinks of how the ladies at home take for granted all of the elaborate dresses, shoes, and handbags that come from the best stores in London but Becky is genuinely pleased with this small offering.

"You are very welcome, Becky," he offers in return.

As Charles listens to Elsie and Becky natter on about this and that, Elsie telling stories of those at Downton, Beryl, Daisy, Anna, and even Thomas, he wonders if there may be a place for Becky in their home. For so long his family had been the Crawleys, until Elsie and now, he realizes that his family sits here in front of him. These two women, these sisters. He wonders if Elsie will want it. They've not even retired yet, only been married a few months. If Becky will want it. To change from something that she has known for so very long. But the longer he listens, he thinks that it may work. He hasn't heard Elsie laugh so freely in years, since she was a young woman, before she became housekeeper. I may just mention it, he thinks, a feeling of satisfaction filling him.

Elsie listens to the easy banter between her husband and sister and it warms her heart. She wonders what it might be like when they are retired, away from their responsibilities at the Abbey, leading their own lives, to have Becky with them. But she looks to Charles and then she thinks No, we've only been married a few months. It wouldn't be right. We've never had time to ourselves. And to take on the responsibility at our ages. I won't mention it, she thinks sadly.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but we are ready to see you now, Mrs. Carson," the nurse says kindly.

Elsie worries her lip for a moment. She isn't sure if she is ready to leave Becky and Charles just yet, even if it is just to step down the corridor into Dr. Smith's office and then speak with the accounting office. She worries that Charles will become stiff again. That the Butler will resurface. That Becky may be uncomfortable without her there. They have been easy with one another with her present but without her?

"Mrs. Carson," the nurse interrupts again growing a bit impatient.

"It's all right Elsie, Becky and I will be fine. Come find us when you are finished," Charles reassures her. Elsie looks to Becky who seems content enough, she's drawing again, and she and Charles have been laughing about Scottish butterflies and Scottish dragons.

"I won't be long," she says as she brushes a hand across Becky's shoulder.

Elsie is with the doctor and then the bookkeeper for three quarters of an hour before she sets out to rejoin Charles and Becky. She returns to the porch swing where she left them, but they are nowhere to be found. She scans the other chairs and questions a few of those she comes in contact but they are of no help. Elsie takes a stroll about the gardens and then she sees them. She stops, completely befuddled and astonished at the sight. Charles' coat folded over the back of a chair, his hat lying atop it. Her husband in shirtsleeves with Becky and a gaggle of her friends gathered around him. As she moves closer she laughs aloud, she sees the true nature of this business. Her husband shuffling through a deck of cards asking one of the ladies to pick a card from those fanned out in his hand.

"Cheerful Charlie," Elsie teases as she made her way to his side, "I thought he retired."

Charles looks to her with a gleam in his eye that she's seen before. When a bazaar or dinner party goes spectacularly well, on their wedding day, when they opened the bed and breakfast to their first customer. "Pick a card, Mrs. Carson," he beams. "Cheerful Charlie at your service."


	7. She Stole My Heart Away

Months have passed since the visit to Lytham St. Anne's. In that time the Butler has turned over his book (one of them) to Mr. Barrow and the Housekeeper has turned over her keys (all but one) to Mrs. Baxter; the other she gives to Mrs. Patmore for old times' sake. Mrs. Carson finds that her fears that her husband would have trouble leaving the Abbey are unfounded, as they have settled into the satisfying hum of a daily routine. He makes his rounds each morning, attending to the fires in the sitting room and guests rooms, readies the table for breakfast. Each place setting exactingly set, perfectly arranged. He snips fresh flowers from their garden, he has become quite the gardener in their retirement, a fact that she is very proud of, and arranges them in a vase in the center of the table. Checks them twice before giving them his approval.

She readies breakfast. If they have guests, it is a treat of fresh made scones (her mother's recipe) and blackberry jam (her own). His chest puffs out proudly when he tells them that his wife's jam won first prize at the county fete. She serves eggs and bacon (from Lady Mary's pigs) and porridge with fruit if they request it. After breakfast, he clears and they do the washing up together; she washes and he dries. As they finish, he is known to sneak a kiss, just beneath her ear on that spot that still makes her smile, her knees a bit shaky. The combination of his warm breath, his scent, the press of his lips against the sensitive flesh of her neck, leave her feeling like a young lass. And though she knows it is coming, when he turns to leave her to attend to his day, he extends one of his big paws and gives her bottom a gentle pat; she hears the faint strains of a familiar tune humming from his lips. She stole my heart away.

Their days are busy when they have guests. Luncheon and supper to serve. Elsie is an excellent cook. Though he would never dare admit it, Charles worried just a bit as to her culinary skill until she whipped up their first meal. Something to satisfy their hunger the morning after their wedding night. Any doubt he may have had she quickly erased. Elsie Carson proved that she could satisfy all of her husband's appetites.

They attend to their guests when they have them and when they do not, he serves on a few committees within the community and the church; he complains that Mrs. Wigan serves on one of them as well. The woman continues to ruffle his feathers. Elsie listens in amusement when he complains of the woman's rudeness. Elsie, herself, volunteers with Mrs. Patmore at the church's charity food and clothing drive. She still helps to organize the church fete; Her Ladyship had asked her personally to continue to oversee it. Truth told, she is happy to do it. To keep her hand in, her mind sharp in organizing such a large undertaking.

At the end of the day, after sheets are changed and beds made, the rooms dusted and floors cleaned, dinner served and guests accommodated, Charles and Elsie finally have time to themselves. When the days are warm, they spend them enjoying the swing in the garden. Elsie particularly enjoys these summer nights, with Charles in his shirtsleeves (only when they have no guests), his tie loosened, and his mood light. His arm stretched out across the back of the swing, his hand cupped around her shoulder. Sometimes they sit in silence, enjoying the sounds of nature. Other times they reminisce of their days in service, those who were their charges, the latest letter from Mr. Branson, or they speculate on when Mrs. Patmore might finally retire to her cottage. When they are well and truly alone, she snuggles close into his side and he plants a kiss to her hair. A satisfied sigh rumbles from Charles' chest, he pushes her aside gently so that he can look at her, see her face, the lovely smile that she offers him. He takes her hand, pushes himself up from the swing bringing her with him. Kissing her gently, he asks a question; a question she answers as she leads him into their cottage.

xxxxxxxx

He returns from the village post office. Another encounter with that woman, Mrs. Wigan, he complains. He sorts the post, places the bills on the kitchen table, and then sees two letters in particular which makes him smile.

"Seems that we each have one today," he says happily, as he passes her letter across the table to her.

She looks at the envelope, sees the return address, and knows immediately who sent the letter. "Well, I wonder what she's sent us this time," Elsie chirps as she begins to open the brown envelop bearing her name.

Charles has already opened the envelope bearing his name "Mr. Charlie Carson." He removes the paper inside and shows the envelope to his wife. "You know, I would never let anyone else call me 'Charlie,'" he says with feigned grumpiness, tapping the envelope with his forefinger.

"No one else would dare call you 'Charlie'," she says laughing. She sees his eyes glance over the paper that he is holding and then she looks over her own. She smiles. It is a drawing of Charles surrounded by Becky and several of her friends. Elsie is choosing a card from a deck fanned out in his hand. The detail is amazing and the expression of joy on Charles' face is captivating; the smiling eyes, upturned crooked smile, rosy cheeks, dancing eyes. Becky has managed to capture the sweet man that usually only Elsie gets to see.

They write Becky faithfully. Charles writes twice a month, as does Elsie. She writes of the goings on of the guesthouse, of the community, of Charles and his garden. Makes inquiries of Becky and her friends. He writes of silly jokes that he thinks she will like, sends snippets of cartoons from the newspaper, of funny things that her sister does. Tells her of a kitten that has come up to their door and that Elsie cannot bear to turn it away.

"Let me see your picture," Elsie says as she moves to pass hers to across the table to him. She notices that he hesitates. "Charles," she says softly. As he looks up, she notices his eye are wet, misty. He passes the paper to her, his lip trembling just slightly.

She takes it, vaguely recognizes the subject with her youthful curves, full hip and bosom. An angular face with chiseled cheekbones, wide sapphire eyes full of both innocence and mischief, and supple lips. The curly dark hair with streaks of auburn flowing wild and free in the breeze, the last carefree days of youth before adulthood and duty came calling.

"Beautiful," the word sticks in his throat.

"That was a lifetime ago," she says softly. "I'm afraid I don't much recognize her now." She has almost forgotten that farm girl; told him once that she was not that girl anymore. He had been right; life has altered her.

"Don't you? her husband asks sincerely. "Because I do." He reaches across to take her hand. Becky has given them each a gift. With pen, ink, and colour she has captured them as she sees them. Him – handsome, kind, generous, funny, and loving. Her – beautiful, mysterious, carefree, and now loyally standing beside him. She has sketched into paper what is etched into their hearts; confirmed what they see that others might not.

"You know, I've been thinking," he begins hesitantly with a ragged breath. "I have something I would like for you to consider. I know that it might be unusual but I would like you to consider it nonetheless."

"Charles, I hope this isn't another business venture," she teases.

"Will you never stop teasing me about that?" he asks pointedly.

"Probably not," she laughs as she squeezes his hand.

He steadies his breathing. She can still make me feel off-kilter, blast it. "Elsie, I've been thinking that now that the business is running smoothly and now that we've been married a while and had some….."

"…time to ourselves?" she finishes for him.

"Yes," he says with a slight blush creeping up his neck and cheeks. "I was wondering what you might think of inviting Becky to live with us? It would make you happy wouldn't it?"

He watches her pull her lip between her teeth hard; it blanches as she bites down on it. She pulls her hand from his, rises to her feet, to stand. She turns her back to him, gripping the cool porcelain of the kitchen sink. He has just asked her the very thing that she has wanted since that visit with Becky all those months ago. He has explained why he waited until now but she wonders if he is only doing it to make her happy?

"Charles, are you sure of what you are asking?" she asks quietly.


	8. What You Are Asking

"Charles, are you sure of what you are asking?" she asks quietly. Her fingers grip the cool porcelain of the sink's edge, her knuckles blanche, and if the sink were not made of cast iron she is sure that she will leave an impression. She has thought about bringing Becky to live with them since they visited her. Not every day, if she is honest with herself. She has been happy just the two of them, pottering around their house, the garden. Watching her husband in the early morning when she wakes and he is still sleeping, the buttons of his pajama top worked loose in the night when the house is warm, like this summer. Watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the skin that only she gets to see, touch, and taste. The hair that is mussed from sleep, the hum of his slumber, the gentle and sometimes not so gentle snore that lets her know that he is still there, beside her. (She cannot bring herself to think of the day that he won't be; she banishes that thought from her mind.) She relishes the walk to church on Sundays when she can wrap her hand in the comfort of his elbow as they natter on about this and that. The way he looks down at her fills her with pride that he is hers.

It is in the quiet moments when he is in town on business, when she misses the bustle of the Abbey, misses Beryl Patmore ranting in the kitchen, and the endless parade of maids through her sitting room. When she's cleaned the house and changed the beds and done it all again, when they've no guests, and there are no bazaars to plan, that she desperately misses her sister. Wants to bring her to Downton. And not for herself, not because she is selfish or needs a project like the ladies of leisure that she worked so many years for. No. It is because she is his wife and her sister and they are settled now and a family and families should be together. Not out obligation but love. And she does love. Loves completely and without reservation. But if Becky is to come, it cannot be to make her happy as much as she loves Charles for suggesting it. It must be because it is right and he wants it as well.

"I do know what I am asking," he answers after a moment. He is confused by her reaction. She's turned her back to him and he cannot read her. He admits that she still befuddles him sometimes, causes him to feel off from time to time. It is not an altogether unpleasant feeling, because if he lives two lifetimes they will not be long enough to learn the intricacies of this woman, his wife. And he so enjoys learning the intricacies of her. Her mind, her heart, her body. But today, in this moment he is utterly confused; wonders what he has done to upset her so. "I thought the idea of bringing Becky to live here with us would make you happy."

She turns to meet his eye, her own drawn tight. "I am happy. Do you think that I am unhappy?"

"Then I don't understand," he says genuinely. "Do you not wish to bring her here to live with us?"

Elsie closes her eyes and releases a deep breath. "I'll not deny that I've thought about it but…"

"…but what?" he interrupts. "Elsie, you once asked me if I have ever thought of going another way. Of working in a shop of having a wife, of having childr…."

"….Becky is not a child Mr. Carson," Elsie spits out. "She is a grown woman with special….special requirements. She cannot replace what we do not have." Her heart sinks the moment the words tumble from her lips; she is ashamed of herself that she has hurt him in such a way that he doesn't deserve. This lovely man who sits in front of her like a wounded bear and she is the cause of it. But she must know. Must know that he understands what they are in for.

He sits shocked as if an electrical current has passed through him. They've not had words this harsh since her cancer scare and then they came from him. He wants to bolt. To push away from the table, to grab his coat from the hook by the door, and leave. The walk until he can walk no more. She needs to cool down and he needs to think. He needs to understand why she is so angry, why she has lashed out when he only mentioned something he thinks will completely mend her heart as she once did for his.

He finds that he cannot move, cannot leave her. He watches her as her chin drops to touch her chest and a tear drops from her eye and drops to the floor. She wipes the back of her hand across her eye and he hears a muffled. "I am sorry, Charles. I didn't mean it."

He knows that she didn't. Perhaps she did mean some of it. He sometimes thinks of the little ones they might have had. Imagines curly headed boys with her eyes and little girls with his flair for the dramatic. Grandchildren clinging to his trousers pleading for peppermint sticks or playing with the new kitten that Elsie has taken in. He thinks of these things on those quiet days, when he is in the garden, when he misses the bustle of the Abbey, when she is away at a charity function, or choir practice.

He pushes away from the table, makes his way to his wife, and gathers her in his arms. He pulls her close; she rests her head on his chest, his chin against her hair. "Elsie, what are you afraid of?"

"I don't know," she cries. "I want you to be certain that you want Becky to live with us not just because you think that it will make me happy."

He shifts away from her just slightly so that he can look at her eyes, he takes his handkerchief from his pocket and gently dries them. "After my mother died, I had no family left. Well, except a few distant cousins that I didn't know. So, for many years, I borrowed another man's family for my own. I thought that was all I needed. But, because…of you, I have my own family and that includes Becky. That is what I was clumsily trying to say. It may be a little late, but we have our other way, now. Bringing her here is not a substitute for anything but it completes our little family. My family. So if I am being selfish by suggesting….."

Elsie flashes a brilliant smile through happy tears. She raises to kiss him, her lips press to his. She tastes of tea and shortbread, salty tears, and happiness. Charles presses in deeper, wraps one hand around her waist, another at the back of her head. He wonders if she will ever know how happy she makes him. If he can ever express how she makes him feel. How proud he is to be her husband, to be a part of this family of theirs. How his heart flutters when she breaks the kiss, brushes her fingertips across his cheek, beams at him with pride, and calls him her man.

"Well, now that it's settled," she says as she brushes the hair over his ear "it is of course up to her."


	9. A Mother's Wish

"…but we are her family and I don't…." Charles interrupts before her hand on his arm stops him. His wife looks to him imploring him to hold his tongue; to allow the doctor to finish speaking. The tension in the room hangs heavy. Elsie knows that her husband's harsh tone is because he is anxious. She has been on the receiving end of it often enough herself. Now that they sit here, before the doctor who is peering at them through his wired rimmed spectacles, dressed in his perfectly starched white coat, they worry that they are doing the right thing. For them. For Becky. Not many people can intimidate either one of them and the doctor is not unfriendly, quite the opposite. He is courteous and he has not intentionally said anything to put them off the idea of bringing Becky home with them. And this man who only has Becky's best interests at heart does not intimidate them, but Elsie realizes that perhaps they have not thought through every possibility. She and Charles pride themselves on examining every detail and she thinks that they have thought them all through but perhaps they have not. She watches her husband as he firmly grips the brim of his hat; she can almost hear what he is thinking. How dare this man suggest that we are not Becky's family?

"Mr. Carson," the doctor softens his tone. "Miss Hughes has lived here quite a long time. She has established friendships and a sense of family that might be difficult to give up no matter how fond she is of her sister or you for that matter. She is accustomed to routine, to a prescribed schedule; her days change very little."

"But are you suggesting that we should not ask Becky if she would like come live with us?" Elsie questions.

"No, Mrs. Carson," the doctor begins, shifts in his chair and adjusts some papers on his desk. "You should be aware that your sister may be hesitant, even resistant to the idea of leaving our home." He leans into his desk and steeples his fingers together across its top. He sees the concern play across Elsie's face and the consternation set in the jaw of her husband. He is not being unkind; quite the contrary. This is the kindest thing that he can do for them. "Mrs. Carson, I am confident that you will be sensitive when speaking with Becky and that should she decided not to leave you should not take offense. She most certainly would not mean it as such. And should she decide to leave, we will offer every assistance in making her move a pleasant one."

As they make their way to the common room, Charles replays the words of the doctor over in his mind. A sense of family. Routine. Prescribed schedule. Her days change very little. He realizes that Dr. Smith could have well been describing him during his days in service. Bits of conversation flitter through his mind. "What are you so afraid of? We're catching up, Mr. Carson. Whether you like it or not, Downton is catching up with the times we live in." "That is exactly what I am afraid of," he remembers telling her. Elsie chatters as they walk through down the corridor passing the dining hall, the doctor's words washing over those of his wife. A sense of family. Routine. Prescribed schedule. Her days change very little. "They are not our family." "They are all the family I've got."

Charles pulls the packet of cards from his coat pocket. He cannot help but notice the smile on Becky's face as he empties the paper box and discards it to the side, shuffles the cards, and begins to distribute them to Elsie, Becky, and then himself. They chat amiably for a while about generalities. Becky's friends. The goings on at Downton. Charles tells of varieties of birds and butterflies that visit their garden. Elsie speaks of the little tabby called Misty that comes to their door every morning, skirts around her legs, purrs for milk and food. How she sometimes finds Charles asleep in the garden swing, Misty sprawled across his lap. Charles laughs as he tells how Elsie shooed the cat outside after finding her atop the kitchen counter lapping milk from a glass.

"We've a house with three bedrooms, sitting room, a bathroom, kitchen, and another small room off the kitchen," Charles mentions, drawing two cards from the pile in the center of the table. "Each guest has their own room." He surveys those in his hand and those he needs. "Becky do you have any…ehm…threes?"

"I've never had my own room. I share with Ada," Becky casually informs them as she searches through her cards for those Charles requested. She finds that she has none and gleefully taps the pool of cards in front of them from which Charles must select one. "Sometimes I'm afraid at night," Becky confides in her sister, "Ada sings to me, like Mam used to. Are you afraid at night, Essie?"

Elsie smiles as she rearranges the cards fanned out in her hand. She looks up to Charles, sees the corner of his mouth upturned. "No, sweetheart. I'm not frightened."

"Do you have your own room Essie?" Becky asks innocently. Elsie's eyes dance as Charles vainly attempts to suppress a nervous cough. So many years alone in small rooms, they are thankful for the room they now share. The comfortable bed they share. The nights and mornings shared.

"I share with Charles, Becky. Like Da and Mam. Remember?" Elsie replies matter of factly. Charles is thankful that Becky is preoccupied with counting the cards in her hand. She does not press for further explanation. She asks Elsie for fives and Elsie passes her a card. Becky seems pleased to lay down a matching set on the table in front of her.

"Ehm, Becky, would you ever like to visit our house?" Elsie asks as she fans out the cards in her hand, arranging them by number and suit.

"Could I bring my friends?" she asks with childlike innocence. Charles looks over his cards, catches his wife's expression. Notices that she has pulled her bottom lip between her teeth; she is chewing on it and he thinks that she might draw blood if she does not stop.

"Any eights?" Elsie asks Charles. He flips out a card passes it to her. As he does, their fingers touch and he lingers a moment, caresses her finger with his. Catches her gaze and offers her a sympathetic smile. "No, dear. I'm afraid that we haven't the room for all of your friends. Just you," Elsie replies as she places a pair of cards into the messy pool of discards in front of her.

"But they would miss me and I couldn't be gone long because I would miss Duff."

Elsie folds her cards and lays them down in front of her. "Duff? Becky, Duff has been gone a very long time."

"No, Essie," Becky insists. "Duff lives here and visits us in the garden. He came as a little kitten and Dr. Smith said that we could keep him." Elsie smiles, picks up her cards.

"I'll wager Duff is very black," Elsie teases.

Becky looks up from her cards, astonished. Charles suppresses a laugh; he has seen the same look from her sister more times that he can count; usually when he has done something that shocks her. "How do you know that?" she asks

Elsie shakes her head in amusement. Of course, Becky would name the cat after the old black cat that slept in soft hay in the barn back home in Scotland. Memories flood back of a wee lass, tucking the docile old feline under an arm and waging him around the farm. And then how inconsolable a four-year-old Becky was the day the old cat died and their father buried him on the hillside up from the house. "Well," Elsie begins, "we wouldn't want Duff to be lonely without you."

"He would be sad," Becky replies. Elsie nods in agreement. The decision has been made.

The card game plays to its natural conclusion and Charles and Elsie completed their visit with Becky. They leave her with a new blouse and skirt, a gift from Mrs. Crawley. A tin of biscuits from Mrs. Patmore and Daisy. Some stamps so that she can send them pictures when she wishes. Elsie pulls Becky close, embraces her, and places a kiss to her cheek. She pulls back, clasps one of Becky's hands in her own, the other she places gently on her shoulder, then smoothes slowly, lovingly down her arm. Tells her to take care of Duff. To try not to be frightened at night. Elsie steps in again, closes the distance, hugs her sister tightly, and breathes in the essence that is Rebecca Hughes. Knows that this could be the last time that they see each other. Though she hopes to visit next year, she'll not make promises; they are getting on after all. Becky smiles and she has no idea why her sister is holding on so tightly. No inkling that she has made a decision that affects them all.

As Elsie pulls away Charles steps in. He gives Becky a kiss on the cheek and presses a packet of cards into her hands. He tells her to play the game with her friends and that he will send her the instructions for a new game soon. They all say their last goodbyes and Elsie feels Charles hand at her elbow as they turn away from Becky and begin to walk down the corridor away from the common room. She is thankful that he is there, offering a steadying presence as she reaches into her handbag and finds her handkerchief. She brings it to her eyes and then to her nose. Presses lightly at the moisture gathered there. She looks up to her husband and finds kind eyes.

He has seen her like this before. When they walked home from the memorial dedication and she was broken hearted over Anna and John. He had offered her encouraging words then, had managed to get a half smile from her and shocked himself. She was usually the one for encouraging words. Yet, perhaps he can help carry her burden today. "I am sorry that you are sad," he offers.

He watches as her eyes fill with tears and she looks away briefly before raising her eyes back to him. He sees the corners of her eyes crinkle; her lips turn up. "I'm not sad Charles," she answers. "All my mother ever truly wanted was for her daughters to be happy. We may not have been happy every day of our lives but…." she pauses, her lip worried before she can begin again, "…..but in the end….."

"…..in the end, your mother got her wish?" Charles asks with hope.

She places her hand in the comfortable bend of his elbow. "I think that you already know that answer to that, Mr. Carson."

He covers her hand with his own as they begin to walk again down the corridor. "And that makes me very happy, Mrs. Carson. Very happy indeed."


	10. Epilogue

In the years that follow, Elsie and Charles visit as they are able and time allows. When they find help to manage the guesthouse or when there are no bookings, they take the train to Lytham St. Anne's. Becky always seems pleased to see them, greets them with that "Hughes smile" as Charles calls it. When they aren't able to make the trip, they write religiously and Becky continues to send paintings and pencil drawings of butterflies, of Duff, and of her friends. She has the nurses write for her of teaching her friends to play the card games of which Charles sends instructions. She is particularly pleased when she manages one of the card tricks he sends.

At Christmas, Elsie manages to send a new dress or suit of clothing; perhaps a pair of shoes on Becky's birthday. The nurses send a card of thanks in return with Becky's signature scrawled at the bottom. Elsie is amazed that such a talented artist has such poor handwriting. But then again she thinks that while she has very nice handwriting she has no talent for art. Elsie puts each letter, every card, every painting away in box for safekeeping. She chooses not to think that they are of no significance to anyone other than Charles and her. That one day someone will toss the pictures, along with many other things, into a bin. That their house will be cleared of its belongings, furniture sold, clothes given to the church charity drive, personal possessions bequeathed away to those listed in their will. The furniture means nothing, nor the clothes, but certain things mean everything to her. The ring Charles slipped onto the third finger of her left hand, her mother's broach, Charles pocket watch that she hears ticking away in the quietness of the night, and Becky's drawings. They are all precious to her. But she cannot think of all that; if someone tosses them out she will not be around to know it anyway.

xxxx

The house is warm; as the sun beats down upon it Elsie has thrown open the windows to air the rooms, to enjoy the summer breeze that occasionally blows through ruffling the curtains. They have one guest, a young man who is repairing some of the stained glass windows at the church and putting in another given by the Granthams in remembrance of the Dowager. He's been in the village for a fortnight and he will be leaving in a week going back to Glasgow. He's been little trouble, comes in early, takes breakfast and supper with them, talks cricket with Charles. Elsie is happy to have someone in the house from home, a young person to talk with. When she hears Charles and the young man talking sport, she wonders what it would be like if the young man were their son. If Charles had a son to talk cricket with and she had a son to dote over, cook for. She's seen the look in Charles' eye, when he's talking with the lad. Or the misty-eyed look just before he averts his gaze when he thinks that she's not looking when she and the young man are talking of home. Truth told, both of them will be sad to see him go.

One day a knock at the door comes, the quick rap of a visitor rather than the longer familiar knock of a friend. Elsie places a cool hand to the door handle to turn it, opens the door to find a young man, his bicycle standing behind him, a letter in his hand. She has been on the receiving end of a telegram a fair few times in her life. Some for herself. Many for others in her duties as Housekeeper. Experience tells her that this is personal; something that she doesn't want to open. The telegraph boy extends the note toward her; he was here just two days ago delivering another telegram. One telling her to stand by, that there is no need to come just yet. Wait until she receives further word. She takes it from him and the sends him on his way.

She closes the door and leans against it, holds the telegram to her breast, and closes her eyes. She knows what is inside, what the doctor and his staff have written. She wishes Charles is home perhaps he could read it first, but then she scolds herself. She has never cowered in the face of anything. Not when her father dropped dead in the fields when she was sixteen or when her mother died of pneumonia when she was forty-five and Housekeeper at the Abbey. Not when she rushed into the dining room to find him surrounded by the family, red faced possibly dying from a heart attack. Not when duty called first and all she could do was to direct the dinner service and then attend to him. Not when she found her girl in a disheveled heap in the corner of her sitting room after that despicable valet forced himself upon her. No. Elsie Carson did not flee from a crisis. Her mother taught her that.

She reads the black lines on the cream paper. Her last connection with home gone. Her last living relative dead. Her sister with the angels.

xxxx

Charles runs his thumb over the gold lettering on the book's spine as he casts appraising eye over the leather cover, taking in each detail. The fine stitching, the walnut colour of the leather. He hums in appreciation. Opening the cover, Charles examines the cream marbled end covers; turns the page and rubs his finger across the name on the title page. Her name in stark black script stands contrasted against the crisp white page. Elsie watches as her husband's lips turn up at the edges. She's already looked over the book but he appreciates the finer qualities of the thing. The perfection of it. But when his eyes first register the author's name, Elsie's heart swells with unimaginable pride. Charles passes the book back to his wife and she cradles it lovingly in her lap.

"So you're pleased?" the lady in the smart jumper and skirt asks. She looks so comfortable and confident behind the desk, Elsie thinks. Elsie is proud of the woman she has become. To have been through so many trials, she has indeed triumphed in the end.

"Oh, my lady, it is so much more than I ever imagined," Elsie replies sincerely.

"Well, we've the leather bound volumes of course and for the general trade market there will be these," Lady Edith remarks as she reaches across her desk to hand Elsie a copy of hard cloth bound volume with a paper dust jacket. Elsie smiles as she takes the book and thumbs through it. To her it is just as beautiful. The illustrations inside are the real treasure no matter the cover that binds them. She leans over, proudly shows the volume to Charles.

"Becky was very talented," Lady Edith offers with a smile. "I could not believe all of the pictures when I saw them."

"It was rather amazing," Charles replies with a smile. "Memories collected over a lifetime. I never thought that they might be collected into a book."

Elsie finishes with the book in her hand and places it on the desk. Finds herself drawn to the letters on its spine. Butterflies of Great Britain by Rebecca Hughes. If only our mother could see, Elsie thinks wistfully. Perhaps she can.

"And we've taken the originals and placed them in our archives like you asked, Mrs. Carson. They will be preserved," Lady Edith assured her.

"Very well," Elsie replied. "Now as to any proceeds that are earned from the sale of the book, Mr. Carson and I wish for those to go to a fund that we have set up in Becky's honor to provide funding for those who need care at the home where she lived. It has been fixed, so Mr. Ward will be contacting you to make the arrangements."

Lady Edith smiles broadly at the former butler and housekeeper. She tells them that she is honored that they asked her to be a part of publishing Becky's work; to help secure her legacy. Now that their business is concluded, Charles and Elsie inquire of little Marigold who lives with her mother in London. Lady Edith shows them several pictures of the little girl who is bright and cheerful much like her mother now. London is good for them and Edith has come into her own. Though the Butler has his favorite, Charles is proud of the woman Edith has become.

xxxx

The Carsons return to their guesthouse and visitors come and go. The summer of 1931 is their last as proprietors, as "property magnets" Charles once called them. For Charles' seventy-fifth birthday, they take down the guesthouse sign, decide to pack it in and close up shop, and retire for good. They've done well for themselves and before they are too old, before knees and hips and backs give out completely, they sell the house to a young couple with four children. With a tidy sum in their account, they buy a cottage near the sea and spend their days doing as they please. Charles pocket watch rarely leaves its spot on the dresser and he and Elsie find that their mornings lie in is just right. On cool nights they sit uninterrupted by a small fire, reading their books, her leaned into his chest, sherry glasses nearby. And early nights, well, early nights are sweet and tender, slow and gentle. When the weather is nice and warm, they walk in bare feet along the sandy shore hand in hand, holding each other steady.

Elsie looks forward to the post when they receive a letter from Beryl with news of Downton, of home. But home is where they are now, together. They will visit at Christmas and stay at the Bates' hotel. She cannot wait to see her girl and the little one with the golden hair of her mother and the soulful brown eyes of her father. If she misses anything, it is that. Seeing Anna's child grow up, Beryl, and Daisy. She keeps up with them through the post and Charles has installed a telephone. She speaks with them on occasion but she and Charles are frugal and telephone calls expensive.

Each month Elsie receives a statement from Mr. Ward's office. Becky's book has done well, has allowed a stipend for a fair few people to supplement their care. It is a gentle reminder that each life has purpose no matter how affected or afflicted. She hopes that her mother would approve, thinks that she would, will ask her one day. When she sees her again. One day. But today, she sees her man strolling up the path to their cottage. She smiles. He has a fishing rod, a pail, and a stringer full of fish. She hugs her arms close to her breast. He brings his catch, his bounty, and lays it at her feet. He leans in to kiss her and he tastes of sea spray. Her mind flashes back to that day in his pantry, all those years ago before the war, another now on the horizon, when she asked him about another way. She sees it before her now. She reaches up, cards her fingers through his white hair, and has never been happier.


End file.
